


lock it all away

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Unhappy Anniversaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Dmitry visits Anya's place often, to be sure; but the doorman’s got a right to be suspicious when he’s showing up at three in the morning.However, Dmitry's got a good reason to be here. He only hopes he's not about to walk in on something he'll wish he hadn't seen.(Written for the prompt: dimya + “You sent so many drunk texts… I had to come over and make sure you were okay.” )





	lock it all away

The doorman eyes him suspiciously, but holds the door open for Dmitry to steps into the lobby anyway. He knows him, at this point; Dmitry is a frequent enough visitor that his modest clothes do not look out of place against the apartment building’s lavishness. Anya’s grandmother insisted on buying her a fancy little penthouse on the twelfth floor, but Anya has turned the lack of subtlety on its head. She’s made the place cozy — almost like home.

Dmitry visits often, to be sure; but the doorman’s got a right to be suspicious when he’s showing up at three in the morning.

He makes his way up via elevator, tapping his feet as it creeps to the top floor. When he gets to Anya’s door, he finds it locked. Cursing to himself, he knocks, waits, then gives up. Either Anya answers on the first knock, or doesn’t answer at all. Dmitry has enough experience with her temper to be familiar with the latter option.

Thankfully, he’s also got enough experience that by this point he’s a pro at picking her lock.

When he finds Anya, she is sitting on her terrace in nothing but a nightgown. The door is wide open behind her, letting humid air into the apartment. He sees her silhouette against the moonlight; Her arms and legs are exposed, bare feet tucked beneath her. Her head is tilted back; she doesn’t notice him, even when he steps out next to her. There is an empty glass bottle lying on the ground, and a half-filled one in her hand.

“Dammit,” Dmitry mutters. His voice startles Anya out of whatever spell seemed to bind her. She springs upright, eyes wide, as he snatches up the empty vodka bottle. (Russian Standard, naturally.) “Are you kidding me?” 

She blinks up at him, face slowly morphing into a disgruntled scowl. He frowns at the glazed look in her eyes, and reaches for her other bottle.

“No,” she snaps, holding it out of his reach. One hand comes up, shoving him away. Dmitry reels back, more annoyed than hurt. “‘S mine. You can’t have it.”

“I don’t _want_ it, now gimme! You trying to drink yourself to death?”

Anya pushes him away again, and makes a grab for the empty bottle. Now it’s his turn to hold it out of her reach. She huffs in annoyance, sending him a fierce glare, before turning her back on him completely. She resumes her previous activity without another glance his way.

Her previous activity seems to be… staring up at the sky. Dmitry doesn’t know what she’s doing, or what she’s looking for, but he can’t help the concern that gnaws at the edge of his conscience. It’s the same concern that had him wake up to check his phone in the first place; the same concern that drove him out of the house in only his pajamas and a jacket, to make sure Anya was okay.

Now that he’s here, it’s obvious that she isn’t. Anya is not okay at all.

He frowns down at the streets below them, watching the cars rush by. Even in the middle of the night, Paris doesn’t sleep. It is a city to its core — so similar, yet so different, from old Petersburg. “Why don’t you go in? You’ll get cold out here.”

“It’s the middle of summer,” Anya replies, and hiccups. “Not like it’s Siberia.”

Not Siberia, indeed. Even the worst of France’s winters feel mild when compared to the cold, dark Russian months. Dmitry endured them for so long that he felt sure he was growing to hate the winter. He never imagined he would miss it.

Instead of arguing with Anya any further — because experience has taught him that a fight with a drunk Anya gets volatile fast, and is not one he’s likely to win — he settles down next to her on the tiny wicker sofa. It creaks beneath their combined weight. 

Anya draws her knees up, shutting her eyes once more. The moonlight reflects off her face. It makes her hair glow, turns her pale skin translucent. Dmitry has to stop his mind before it takes him down a track of thought he isn’t ready for — _she’s beautiful,_ for example. She is, of course. She is also unattainable; technically royalty, and a definite royal pain in his ass. He’s not ready to admit the things his brain (and heart) already know.

“Why’re you here?” Anya finally says. She sounds exhausted.

He doesn’t want to sound concerned. The last thing he needs is for her to think he was worried about her; that their relationship might be anything more than friendship, two people bound together by coincidence and circumstance. To admit that he’s worried about Anya would almost be as good as saying he loves her.

Instead, he just scoffs, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “You sent me so many drunk texts,” he replies glibly, “I had to come over and make sure you weren’t drinking all of Paris dry.”

“I didn’t send any —“ Anya glances down at his phone, cuts herself off, and scrunches her face up. “Oh. Maybe I did.”

She’s ridiculous. He can’t stand her.

Yet, for some reason, he’s dragged himself out of bed in the middle of the night, just to make sure that she’s alright.

“Are you?” he asks in a soft voice — realizing belatedly that Anya has no clue what he means. “I mean, are you - doing - are you okay?”

Anya stares at him for a long moment, face blank, eyes dull. She shifts the bottle in her lap, fingers caressing the rim like something precious.

“It’s July 17,” she finally says. Her eyes flutter shut.

It takes Dmitry a moment to realize. The date, at first, means nothing to him. It’s not her birthday (he wouldn’t forget that _again)._ It’s not a holiday. It’s nothing important, nothing that should matter, except…

“Oh,” he realizes, eyes widening. “It’s —“ 

“The anniversary?” Anya’s voice is dull. She takes another drag from the bottle. “Yeah. It’s the anniversary.”

The anniversary of the day Anya’s family was slaughtered. The realization feels hollow in Dmitry’s chest. It’s been eleven years, but this is the second year that Anya is able to remember it.

(He still remembers last year’s anniversary. Anya spent the entire day withdrawn and tense; one careless word from Dmitry sent her into a rage, spitting and screaming, until she hurled a book at his head and barricades herself in her room. She spent the rest of the evening in tears. The only one she would allow in to see her was her grandmother, and they passed that awful night together.)

This year, Anya hadn’t mentioned anything about the anniversary. Dmitry hadn’t even remembered.

“Hey,” he says softly. When she doesn’t look at him, he tries again. “Hey.”

There are no good words, no right thing to say. When Dmitry told her how his mother wasted away from cancer, or about the death of his father in a riot when he was just a boy, she hadn’t tried to comfort him. Instead, she was simply there, allowing him to draw strength from her presence. That was what he needed, even if it took him a while to admit it.

He’s not sure what Anya needs now, but he knows he can be there for her. It’s the least he can do.

His movements are tentative as he extends an arm, wrapping it around her shoulders. He half expect her to pull away, but she surprises him by leaning into his embrace. Gently, he reaches over and plucks the bottle out of her hand. Instead of protesting, this time she just makes a soft, displeased noise and lets it go.

“No more of that,” he says. “You’ll be sick in the morning.”

“Won’t,” Anya replies. “I’m not you.”

“Thank god for that.” If they were any more alike, Dmitry is sure they would have killed each other already. He runs a hand up and down her arm, feeling the heat of her skin. After a few moments, her head tips to the side to lean against his shoulder.

“You’re warm,” she mutters. Dmitry doesn’t bother pointing out her own heat, or the humid summer night. “Make me feel safe.”

It’s either an observation or a request. He doesn’t know, can’t read her face or her quiet voice; still, he’ll do all he can.

“I’m here,” he tells her. “As long as you need me. Nothing’s going to take me away from you.”

“Don’t say nothing, Dima. You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he promises. “We’ve been through too much together to let anything split us up. Whatever happens… we’re in it together. For better or worse. Even when I can’t stand you.”

“I can’t stand you either,” Anya murmurs. It sounds like she’s echoing another sentiment entirely, something sweet and honest. Dmitry feels heat well up in his chest, and the summer air can’t even compare.

“On anniversaries,” she whispers, “we always used to have parties. There was cake… and we’d tell jokes… my siblings and I would put on plays.” She pauses, losing herself in the memories for a moment. Dmitry grips her even tighter, desperate to keep her here with him. After a few seconds, she lets out a shaky laugh. “Can this be our party?”

He sighs, and huffs our a laugh himself. The bottle in his hands is heavy. He takes a short swig from it, and winces. “If this is your idea of a party, please don’t do anything for my birthday.”

She brings up a hand to smack him, but loses track of it halfway. It winds up resting heavily on Dmitry’s collar, her fingertips just grazing his skin. He closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of her touch for as long as he is allowed to.

There is nothing he can say that will ease her hurt, he knows, but he’s got to try. He can’t do much at all, but he can do that. It’s not enough, but it’s all he can give her.

“I’ll never leave you,” he swears again, “and I’ll never let anything hurt you. Ever.”

Her voice is slow, sad, sleepy. “You promise?”

He rests his chin on the crown of her head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I promise.”

He holds her, rubbing her back and staring down at the street below, until her breathing grows heavy. With a quiet surprise, he realizes she has fallen asleep.

Her dreams will not be sweet tonight, but Dmitry will be there for her through them all.


End file.
